


The Marriage of Sir Enjolras

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Other, Slow Burn, The Marriage of Sir Gawain AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras' mistress is Patria, but a marriage of politics can be allowed for the sake of the people. The Marriage of Sir Gawain/Sir Gawain and the Dame Ragnell/Wife of Bath's Tale/loathly lady AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Marriage of Sir Enjolras

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer.
> 
> (Sort of inspired by [lady_ragnell/theladyragnell](http://theladyragnell.tumblr.com), because I was staring at her username, thinking about how much I love this story and wondering why this AU didn't already exist.) Because everyone needs Enjolras as Sir Gawain and far too much Grantaire and faeries. I've mixed a few different versions, as you might notice, but the basic plotline is still there.
> 
> Come say hi over on [tumblr](http://sovinly.tumblr.com), I'm always happy to talk!

Trouble starts, as it does, in the forest.

For weeks, they’ve been hearing the occasional report of people gone missing or waylaid, but today a woman rides into court, and asks an audience with them. The Lady Musichetta has a full mouth that smiles easily and dark eyes bright with good humor, but she’s undoubtedly serious when she speaks to them in the council room.

“There’s an ogre, you see,” she says, looking at Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac in turn, seated as they are in the center of the row. “In the forest, blocking travelers. I went out and around, but the people in the villages nearby don’t have the luxury.”

“We will, of course, do our best to deal with the problem,” Combeferre assures her, glancing at Enjolras, who nods quietly, and then smiles. “Thank you for bringing it to our attention.”

Lady Musichetta smiles, brilliant and pleased. “I thank you for the audience, and am glad to hear that the news of your court is true.”

There have been doubts, that a country run by a group of three men, supported by a full and diverse council, can be as strong and run as well as any with a king, and her support visibly relaxes the room. Now that their business is finished, Bossuet rises. The knight, known for his ill fortune and good humor, smiles at Lady Musichetta and offers a bow. And what Bossuet does, Joly does, and the reverse, and the physician looks just as entranced.

“Would you care for an escort wherever you’re headed next?” he offers. “Or perhaps a tour of the city?”

She smiles at them both, and they make a pretty set. “I would be very glad to accept.”

When Bossuet steps around the table, she takes his arm, hooking her free hand about Joly’s elbow when he does the same, and starts asking questions as they head out.

“I think this is a task that requires no more than three,” Enjolras says, breaking the amused quiet, his brow furrowed faintly in thought. “I will gladly go. Bahorel, Prouvaire, would you be willing to accompany me? Two knights and a bard should make a good company.”

“A chance for a fight? You know I wouldn’t miss it,” Bahorel says, cheerfully, looking incredibly pleased and cracking his knuckles while Prouvaire smiles.

“In the woods on so poetic an adventure?” He speaks softly, but sound genuinely pleased, as he does. “You hardly need to ask, my friend.”

Combeferre nods, thoughtful. “Leaving the rest of us to attend matters here. You’ll be leaving shortly?”

“In the morning,” Enjolras agrees, rising with his usual determined look, already planning. He gives Combeferre and Courfeyrac both a look that says they’ll be speaking before he leaves in the morning, then makes his excuses, going to prepare while the rest of them start to chat about other things or leave for various engagements.

It takes him very little time to pack, not much given to excess, and the kitchens have promised plenty of provisions that can be supplemented if their errand takes longer than expected. Still, it’s late when he finally takes council with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, speaking quietly over the most pressing matters that Enjolras needs to have input on, and later still when he finally sleeps, but morning seems to come on quickly all the same.

Despite the early hour, all of them turn out to see them off, even Feuilly, though the craftsman undoubtedly has work he needs to start, and it’s a cheerful send off. When they ride out through the gates, the sun isn’t even all the way up, and when they get further out, passing fields lit up with pale pink light, Prouvaire takes out his lute, strumming idly and starting to sing, the air peaceful and companionable. Enjolras has missed this, riding out with only a little company, as much as he loves the affairs of the court and thinks the work important.

For once, they have little time to stop and speak with the people in the outlying villages, but what information they do gather, Enjolras carefully notes for later, and Bahorel tells him that the people seem happy enough with the state of things. It’s welcome news. A week finds them at the outskirts of the forest, Prouvaire strumming melancholy tunes as they enter into the dark woods, dim and dismal.

The air hangs heavy around them, and Enjolras is reminded of the Otherworld that presses so closely against theirs, and even with the danger it is enough to enjoy the beauty. That night, they camp by the river, and the rustling of the rushes mixes with the curious noises of curious creatures that Bahorel hardly seems to hear but Prouvaire listens to with fascination and excitement. Neither ask Enjolras if he can hear them, because his family’s history is known well enough.

“How do you think we’ll find this ogre?” Prouvaire asks, hands weaving herbs together absently. “What manner of challenge?”

Enjolras can only shake his head. “I do not know. I can only hope that we are well prepared, and can give the people back safe passage.”

Prouvaire hums at that, thoughtful, and engages Bahorel in idle chatter.

They don’t have long to wonder, and meet the ogre the next morning. He’s a mountain of a creature, fae to his bones and blood, with a clever, crafty look to him, massive legs stretched out over the road, eyes lazily half opened as he watches them approach, Bahorel and Enjolras riding side by side to span the road, Prouvaire behind them.

“Ah, the infamous Sir Enjolras,” the ogre rumbles, sitting up straighter, hand on his weapon, towering and immoveable. “Have you come to bargain?”

“Perhaps,” Enjolras says, steady and unimpressed, passing both of his horse’s reigns to one hand, blue eyes cool as he studies the ogre. “Why have you taken over this roadway, to block the passage?”

The ogre smiles a horrible smile, full of sharp teeth and fae feeling. “It cuts through my forest. A citizen of yours killed a stag that is dear among our kind. It is a creature, it will be back before long, but all the same an unappreciated slight and a trespass. A forester, the name of Thénardier.”

“We know the man,” Enjolras says. “And will charge him for his trespass. We present our apologies.”

“A good start,” the ogre booms, and his grin grows. “And yet. A challenge for you, my lord. Have an answer for my question in a week’s time, and I will leave your crossing. If you do not, another, less desirable arrangement will have to be reached.”

Enjolras looks to Bahorel, who nods, and Prouvaire, who does the same, before answering the ogre. “Very well. I accept your challenge, in good faith, for the good of the people. What question would you have me answer?”

“For the people, you say.” He laughs at that, a thunderous roar that shakes the trees and startles the birds in the brush. “Then I will ask you, what does a person most desire?”

It’s a slippery question, a tricky one, with too many possible answers. But he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, and they have a week to figure out what the catch in it is. The fae are fair, at least in that, so that there is always a way to an answer for those who will sacrifice to seek it. The trickery of it burns him, rankles at him, but Enjolras owes it to those who depend on the road and can’t bring himself to risk the lives of his friends unless he exhausts the other option, so he nods, stiffly. “I will have your answer within the week.”

“I await it,” the ogre says, with the same grotesque grin, and watches as they turn back and go.

They ride in silence for a long while, until the bends and curves of the road take them far enough away that the quiet underpinnings of sounds come back in and the light filtering in through the branches starts to look idyllic again.

“What are we going to do?” Bahorel asks, finally. “We hardly have enough time to return and ask the others for advice. It was a poorly worded question, and trickery. But isn’t there a story like this, Jehan?”

Prouvaire nods, look thoughtful. “There is. What women want most is sovereignty, but the answer won’t be the same, it would be too simple. And the question is different. Not what a people want, but what a _person_ wants.”

“Does the individual person not desire the same?” Enjolras asks, tossing his head a little as he does to clear his thoughts, curls catching the light as they fall. “To be free, to have equality, to be treated with dignity?”

The poet only looks considering, then shakes his head. “Yes, but I think there’s more to it. You are thinking of the citizen, but I think we must consider the word Combeferre prefers – man.”

“Unfortunately for us, he is not here,” Enjolras sighs, frowning a little. “But we will make do. Bahorel, have you any thoughts of where to start? Your preferences keep you closer to the people than ours; mine in the court and Prouvaire’s to his books and his flowers.”

Bahorel snorts. “I think you’ll find a hundred different answers for a hundred different people, Enjolras. But it seems to would be the best to ask the people themselves.”

“So it is,” Enjolras agrees, and smiles at them, losing the rest of the irritation still irking him. “I thank you for your help.”

“No, think nothing of it,” Bahorel says, but his booming voice is friendly and his crooked grin wide, and Prouvaire’s blush and shy smile are thanks enough.

They ride back to the nearest town for the night. It’s a hard ride, but not enough that they can’t get up in the morning, splitting up. Prouvaire goes to speak to the women and children, his sweet look and gentle voice the least likely to unsettle them, and Bahorel claps their shoulders before going to speak to the blacksmith first, which leaves Enjolras to speak to the merchants and craftsmen, and to deal with the matter of Thénardier.

By the time they meet up again, Enjolras’ mind is filled with thoughts of what the town needs and what can be done to improve the lives of the people here, but he’s no closer to finding an answer for the question. He pours over the responses for hours, trying to find some similarity, trying to string them together in a way that will tell him something.

The next few days are similarly unsuccessful, even though they branch out, riding to other nearby farms and towns, and the pattern is similar. Many things they could stand to improve, but nothing that tells him what every person desires. It’s the sixth day, in the morning, that Enjolras finally shakes his head, blue eyes solemn.

“We’re no closer,” he admits. “And yet, we know there must be a way to obtain an answer. This started in the forest, and I believe we would do better to search there. There is no harm to start, at this pace. If we do not… if we must be bloody, we must be bloody, but I would not have us lose faith just yet.”

“If you say we ought to try the forest, then we shall,” Bahorel says, his dark gaze steady. “We will follow you, and will go with you.”

He is overwhelmed with gratefulness. “My friends, I owe you more than I can see, and am grateful for you.”

Prouvaire simply kisses his brow, his eyes soft and earnest. “We feel the same for you, Enjolras.”

Still, he is grateful for them as they set out again, that the knowledge does not sit on his shoulders alone even though he will take responsibility for what happens as they go.

They ride into the forest again, and it’s still too peaceful and too calm for Enjolras’ mind, but it’s beautiful, in its way, and commands respect. For a few hours, they don’t run into anyone, hardly see anything, but there’s a bend in the trail by the river, and Enjolras can just see the slope of someone’s shoulders near the bank. At the jingle of tack, he can see a dark head lift up, and by the time they draw close, the person is standing by the side of the road.

He’s watching them, long, dark curls pulled back in a ponytail that’s messy and half fallen free, stocky and well built, dressed like a woodsman of some sort. And he’s ugly, there’s no other word for it, and Enjolras would say there’s something almost fae about him, only he’s never seen a faerie so human in appearance who looked anything less than (disconcertingly, dangerously) beautiful.

“Monsieur,” Enjolras greets all the same, gently reigning in his horse. “Might we have a moment of your time?”

“Certainly,” the man allows, studying them another moment and giving them a grin at the same time he sweeps a short, courteous bow. “How may I be of service?”

Enjolras absently strokes his horse’s neck to soothe her, holding the strange man’s gaze. “We are trying to answer a question. What is it that a person most desires?”

His face lights up with curiosity and interest, even as he leans back against a nearby tree. “Ah, the ogre. I see. I know the answer he wants, but I’m afraid I can’t give it to you.”

He looks, surprisingly, actually regretful at that, but it passes quickly as Bahorel quirks up a brow. “Why not?”

The man snorts softly. “There’s a condition. Isn’t there always?”

“What condition, then?” Enjolras asks, cool and steady, though he wants him to quit dancing around the subject.

“Someone has to marry me,” he says, an unreadable look in his eyes. “A loophole he gave me in jest, seeming to think it unlikely, but a loophole all the same. Yet it’s not something one should be forced to do; it must be done with intent. So, you see, I cannot give your answer.”

Enjolras wonders how he’s not aghast at this, how this man can so easily dismiss it, as though he has no preference in the matter at all. “And that is the price for your answer?”

For the first time, the man’s mouth thins in a narrow line, the subtlest shift of his posture reading indignation and offense. “It is not a price, nor is it of my choosing. I would have given you the answer freely if I could, and I haven’t demanded a thing from you.”

“You have not, I apologize,” he says softly. And he thinks. Because he has never intended to marry, has never had an interest in a companion, nor even in political ties. The friendships he shares with the rest of them and the fact that they’re _helping_ people is more than enough for him. What would it matter, to have a spouse? Others have made greater sacrifices. He straightens in the saddle, and all three of them look at him. “I cannot promise it would be conventional, and I could not promise to be attentive, as my devotion lies with Patria, but I would ask nothing of you. You would be free to pursue your own interests. If you think an agreement could be reached?”

The man stops and looks stunned, staring up at Enjolras with an unfathomable, surprised expression, eyes wide. Then his brow furrows, face shuttering closed and features drawing tight. “You don’t even know my name, let alone anything about me. And I don’t want to force you into anything.”

“Nor do I want to force you,” Enjolras says, ignoring the way that Bahorel and Jehan are gaping at him. “And, as I said, I would not restrict you, at least no further than the bounds of law. Unless you really think we cannot find a way to make this work between us – there have been binding unions founded on less. Monsieur…?”

“Grantaire,” he replies, finally, slowly. “Or R, if you would rather. And I know who you are. … Very well. If you’re certain?”

“I am,” Enjolras says firmly, and shifts his weight, leaning down. He offers his hand to Grantaire – and that was a good pun, he appreciates it – look solemn and serious. “You will accept my offer of marriage?”

For a moment, Grantaire is silent and bows his head, then looks up and very, very briefly, touches Enjolras’ gloved hand with his fingertips. “… Yes. I will accept it.”

“I thank you.” He is grave, and sincere. He does appreciate it, though the fact that they’ve had to leaves a bad taste in his mouth. And if he doesn’t understand why Grantaire would go along with it, he will have time, presumably, to learn.

Grantaire just nods, and pulls his hand back, before his look turns not quite playful, not quite amused, but there is some dry humor to his eyes, and he speaks lazily, as though it is nothing to him to do so. “Very well. You are by all accounts a crusader for justice and the people, sir knight. Here then, your answer - it is not enough to give a person choice, but to respect those they make. Medea made her sacrifice, Pylades his, they only wanted it to be worthwhile, to be accepted.”

“Acceptance?” Enjolras echoes, surprised. It’s not something he ever would have come to on his own, and he’s not quite sure what to make of it.

He nods, and draws back a step, bowing to the three of them.

“I will meet you at the edge of the woods tomorrow; I do have a few things to get in order,” Grantaire tells them, straightening again. He pauses as he turns to go, brown eyes peering straight into Enjolras’. “I hope it was worth the price.”

It doesn’t sound quite bitter, or angry, or resentful, just a little quiet, almost defeated, but he starts to walk away before any of them can say anything, disappearing into a cluster of trees soundlessly.

“What new strangeness brought on _that_?” Bahorel asks him, staring at Enjolras. “Enjolras, you’ve never shown an interest in anyone, you _told a foreign delegate that you’re married to Patria_. You didn’t have to-”

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, but it costs me nothing. A political marriage, based on that understanding, won’t limit me in my duties, nor do I intend to use it to control him.”

Bahorel just shakes his own head in reply, looking somewhere between amused and disbelieving, clapping Enjolras on the back, his words making little sense. “Well, then, I hope you don’t find it complicates more than expected.”

“Oh, I think we’ll see,” Prouvaire says, with a cryptic smile. Enjolras gives him a quizzical look, but he just shakes his head, clucking his tongue as he nudges his horse forward again. Bemused, Enjolras follows, Bahorel chuckling a little.

They head deeper into the forest, coming to a silent agreement to speak to the ogre sooner rather than later, the mood a little lighter than before. When they approach, the ogre laughs again, loud and booming as he watches.

“Not admitting defeat already?” he asks, ignoring the others in favor of Enjolras.

Enjolras simply looks up at him, unintimidated. “Hardly. Thénardier is dealt with, and I have your answer.”

“Do you?” the ogre asks, sounding condescending and amused rather than surprised. “Very well. What do you say a person desires?”

“Acceptance,” he says, meeting the ogre’s gaze levelly.

The ogre roars, fury contorting his face. “ _How_ \- oh. Ohhhh.”

He laughs, tossing back his great head.

“Always so canny and cunning with words. How very clever and how very unexpected. Not a bargain I expected you to make, my lord. You’ve won our little game, and I will leave, as promised. But I think you’ve only given yourself a trickier question in return.”

Rising to his feet, the ogre sweeps a bow, still chuckling as he picks up his weapon and strides off into the woods, picking his way gently through the trees and vanishing into the mist.

Enjolras frowns faintly at that. “That felt almost too easy.”

Prouvaire shakes his head. “Not really. It seemed more like a matter of diplomacy than anything – he felt insulted at the presumption of the road, and you did solve his little riddle. I’m more curious as to what he meant by a trickier question. I think, my friend, that you are in for an interesting courtship, however superficial.”

“Though you must admit, any courtship of Enjolras’ would be interesting!” Bahorel points out, both he and Prouvaire laughing.

“I cannot disagree,” Enjolras says, ruefully, “and I must say it’s something I never thought I’d have any cause for.”

“Nor did we,” Bahorel tells him cheerfully, following easily as Enjolras turns to head back down the road. “And certainly not in such a manner, to such a man.”

He only shakes his head, listening to them chatter comfortably as they start to ride again. They make camp when it starts to get dark, quiet and companionable. And the next morning, as sure as the sunrise, Grantaire is waiting for them at the edge of the forest.

His hair is pulled into a neater tail than the day before, and he has sturdy boots and a cloak around his shoulders, holding the reigns of a dark brown, shaggy horse, only a little larger than a pony. He doesn’t have much with him, only a few small bags, and he looks almost surprised when they hail him but waves back.

“I almost thought you might slip off without me,” he says, swinging up into the saddle of his horse. “It all went well, I take it?”

“It did and I thank you.” Enjolras nods at him, and Grantaire smiles back just a little.

“Of course. A relief to see you faced no trouble.” He falls quiet, but there’s a silent question in his face that Enjolras can’t quite decipher.

“You don’t regret our arrangement, I hope?” he asks instead, and strangely, that seems to make Grantaire’s face ease a touch as he shakes his head.

After a moment more, they start off again, Grantaire trailing behind at first until Bahorel sighs with a pointed look at Enjolras and drops back to ride beside him, starting to talk to him about the city and the court. Soon enough, they’ve wandered off in a discussion about sparring techniques and on even from there, sharing loud laughter and, apparently, a sense of humor.

But when they finally stop to camp for the night, Grantaire slowly starts to withdraw again, making his excuses as the sun begins to set and settling in to sleep a ways from the fire. He does, at least, take the last watch, bundled in his cloak and throwing together breakfast when Enjolras wakes, just a little before the others, but they don’t have a chance to talk.

He’d assumed, almost, that Grantaire was more in line with Bahorel’s loudness and roughness, as they seemed to get on quite well, but as they set off again, he falls in beside ever shy Prouvaire, and they spend hours speaking quietly and at length, both men clearly enthusiastic about the subject. But again, when they stop at the end of the day, Grantaire offers to take the last watch, and goes to sleep early, leaving them to their conversation.

It’s not until the third day of riding that Enjolras finds himself beside Grantaire, but the other man seems more interested in studying him from the corner of his eye than starting a conversation.

“As I have said,” Enjolras says, finally, because while he is a quiet man, he hates this itching and unfamiliar silence, “I have no intention of asking more than you would care to give. And yet, I would hope we could at least find some common ground between us, especially if we are to travel for a week in the same company.”

Grantaire sits a little straighter at that, just barely, and his brows curve in subdued surprise. “I certainly wouldn’t be adverse.”

And yet his attempts at conversation deteriorate quickly. He supposes, in retrospect, that demanding to know why Grantaire would do all of this if he does not believe in the inherent goodness of man may have come off rather insultingly. His other companions certainly seem to think so. Grantaire rides ahead with a tight, tense set to his jaw and his shoulders, and Enjolras tries not to brood over the disastrous attempt for the rest of the ride, hating to feel so helpless. When they make camp, Bahorel says that Grantaire mentioned he’d sleep elsewhere.

He does, at least, join them the next morning, and Bahorel manages to cheer him from his clearly unhappy and vaguely belligerent mood, while Prouvaire rides beside Enjolras and manages, eventually, to make him smile when he recounts a tale that is more amusing than tragic. They reach a truce by the time they reach the small town where they stop for the night, and Grantaire stays to chat with them in the common room. His puns are clever and subtle, and Grantaire grins broadly when he catches Enjolras’ quiet smile. Still, he retires early, but Enjolras finally feels at least a little like the other man doesn’t just tolerate him for the sake of their agreement.

The next day, Grantaire is in more vibrant mood, regaling Prouvaire with tales and then going off on a long and rambling rant accompanied by sweeping gestures of his hands. Enjolras just listens, certainly not catching all of the references the man makes, but he can’t help but smile at the puns and plays on words that are so subtle and so clever.

At the next inn, he is just as entertaining, getting on easily with a group of men in the corner, and coaxes Bahorel into joining them. When Grantaire makes his excuses, early as always and looking regretful, Enjolras watches him go thoughtfully, having so many questions he wants to ask but doesn’t dare for risk of upsetting their uneasy truce and overstepping bounds. He sleeps poorly that night, for all he has a warm bed.

It dawns rainy and grey, and the mood is a little subdued as they ride out on the muddy roads, but all the same, Enjolras swallows his pride and falls back to ride alongside Grantaire, whose horse seems unbothered by the wet weather, whickering affectionately.

“I apologize for the other day and my insinuations about your motives,” Enjolras says evenly. He can, on occasion, admit he’s been wrong. “It was unkind and unfair of me.”

Grantaire looks over at him, taken aback, but then he smiles, and his eyes seem to go gentle, almost affectionate for the first time. “You’re more than forgiven. I hope I’ve not given you reason to regret your offer.”

“I’m not so ungrateful a man as that,” he says, dryly, and it makes Grantaire chuckle. That feels like a victory. “Though I hope I’ve not given you reason to regret your acceptance. If you’ve changed your mind…”

“I’d not want to invalidate your answering, even if there were no other punishments for breaking our words,” Grantaire replies, and he meets Enjolras’ eyes. There’s still a hint of something fae and strange about him, but his voice is utterly honest and human. “And you’ve given me no cause to regret it. Only if this will bring you trouble.”

“You may have gathered I have no care for gossip.” Enjolras holds his gaze. “I am not a king, the weight of my personal decisions does not fall catastrophically on the heads of the people. Your willingness to agree was an unlooked for boon, and I would like this to be a marriage of equals.”

“I am glad to have been of some use to you,” Grantaire says, a little teasing but earnest all the same. “I will do what I may to offer you the same. But, forgive me, I have heard so much from others and so little from you. Would you indulge my curiosity?”

That, Enjolras can grant, and he speaks to Grantaire about how the country came to be as it is now under their strange form of governance, and a little about himself, but eventually Bahorel and Prouvaire overhear and fall back to chime in, and entertain with stories that are a little more amusing. They don’t get a moment to speak alone again, but before he retreats to sleep, Grantaire pauses to murmur a quiet thanks to Enjolras. He only barely has time to return it.

He wakes the next morning knowing that they will reach the city in good time, and it brightens his spirit even as it makes him anxious to discover what has occurred in their nearly month long absence. Bahorel and Prouvaire are similarly excited, speculating over what their friends and companions have been doing, Prouvaire sighing over the prospect of his own rooms and books while Bahorel expounds on the virtues of his ever-laughing mistress. Enjolras listens to them with a quiet, fond look and a soft smile, and adds his own relief at being home, but doesn’t fail to notice that Grantaire has fallen silent and stern, frown creasing his face as they ride.

And when they come within sight of the walls, Grantaire’s brow furrows a little more, edging a little closer to them but not enough to speak with any of them.

Word of their arrival seems to have spread, because Courfeyrac is waiting for them in the stables. As soon as Bahorel has handed off his reigns, Courfeyrac embraces him, then sweeps Prouvaire into his arms, and Enjolras even more fiercely. His embraces are always welcome, and Enjolras returns the hold just as tightly, greeting his dear friend warmly. It is then that Courfeyrac turns to Grantaire.

"Ah! Hello! And who is this?"

The man in question still has a strange look to his face, but it is more bemusement than anything, as he holds the reins in his hand loosely.

"Courfeyrac," Enjolras sighs with exasperated affection. "This is Grantaire. Grantaire, our friend and companion, Courfeyrac."

"I have heard of you. A pleasure," Grantaire says, eyes crinkling a little in the corners, because Courfeyrac seems to bring that out in people, and he bows. "Please, call me R."

"A grand R, even!" Courfeyrac says, cheerfully, beaming at him. "The pleasure is mine and you are very welcome. Enjolras, Bahorel, Jehan, we've called a meeting, and I've been sent to collect you."

"Ah. We do have quite the story to tell, and you play a part." Enjolras turns to Grantaire as he speaks. "Would you be willing to come with us? I will do my best to bear the brunt of the questions, if you'll let them stable your horse."

Grantaire's mouth quirks up dryly. "As though I could reject your request; I imagine there will be questions that you cannot answer alone. A moment, though, if you please, or she'll bite, the ill tempered thing."

He strokes the docile horse's nose, nudging his head against hers and then meeting her eyes, murmuring to her sternly, earning a whuffle before he laughs and reluctantly hands over his reins, sweeping a gesture to lead on.

Bahorel and Prouvaire fall in to flank him, and it doesn't escape Courfeyrac's notice, as little does, and he cuts a curious sideways glance at Enjolras. In response, Enjolras just touches his forearm, a silent promise that all will be explained as soon as time allows. As promised, all of their friends are waiting in their usual chamber, and it desends into a swarm of greetings.

By the time Enjolras has managed to extract himself (without much earlier effort, as he has missed them) from the embraces and warm affection, Joly and Bossuet have noticed Grantaire hanging back and gone over to wrangle an introduction, and he's unsurprised that they're laughing as they swap names and puns.

Combeferre has noticed him as well, and raises a brow at Enjolras. He waits until they're seated, and shares a look with Bahorel and Prouvaire.

Prouvaire takes up the thread first, skimming over the details of their travel for once, though it clearly pains him to do so, and perhaps he's mollified by the promise of properly recounting it for the court later. He gets all the way up to the point where they returned to the forest before he looks to Enjolras and then Grantaire, questioning, not wanting to intrude or speak for them.

Grantaire, for his part, cedes to Enjolras with a nod, watching him with an intent look, like he's waiting to see how much Enjolras will tell them. But Enjolras has never liked to leave his friends in the dark, though he'll certainly get into greater detail with Combeferre and Courfeyrac later in the evening. For now, he simply speaks.

"It was there we encountered Monsieur Grantaire," he tells them, calmly. "We asked him the same question we asked the others, and he knew both the asker and the answer, but there was a condition placed on him."

Their eyes all sharpen and Combeferre's brow inches up a touch.

"Monsieur Grantaire could not speak it unless someone agreed, freely and with real intent, to marry him." Enjolras, despite knowing that they will hardly judge him as others might, feels himself straighten. "You know, all of you, that this country and her people are my highest concern, and that I have had no intent of taking a lover or a spouse. As such, it seemed expedient to agree to a marriage of politics and practicality, legally binding but free to leave us to our pursuits. Monsieur Grantaire accepted my proposal, and gave the answer freely, and the ogre accepted it as correct and departed."

"A moment," Feuilly interjects, raising a hand. "How did this proposal come to be made? I do not question your logic, Enjolras, but am surprised all the same."

"It seemed the logical conclusion," Enjolras says, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "I mistakenly suggested that Monsieur Grantaire was hinting at a demand, but I was in the wrong. I made the suggestion freely and without prompting."

Bahorel and Prouvaire both nod their confirmations, and when Enjolras spares him a glance, Grantaire is just watching them all with the same quiet twist to his mouth as before, eyes unreadable.

“I must admit, I’m curious,” Joly pipes up, look curious and smile friendly. “R, how did you get such a condition laid upon yourself in the first place?”

Grantaire laughs at that, smiling back at Joly not quite sheepishly. “Ogres are no better when drunk than humans. He meant it snidely as an impossible occurrence, but words are words and conditions are conditions, especially for the fae.”

“Forgive the question,” Combeferre says, catching his attention, “but are you fae yourself, then?”

“Oh. No.” His face scrunches up and he shrugs his shoulders. “I am human, but live on the border between the two worlds. A forest like that, you understand, you’re likely to run into fae. They care little for how humans look, and more for how much entertainment they might provide. Yes?”

Combeferre nods, but he still looks speculative. “And you acquiesced to this entirely of your own free will.”

“I understand only love and liberty,” Grantaire replies, dryly, but then softens a touch. “You have nothing to fear, my lords, I expect nothing from this marriage than what we’ve agreed. It does not limit my freedoms; it’s not so high a price to pay for soothing over some politics.”

Courfeyrac leans forward, his brow creasing. “Was the situation really so bad? It sounded rather minor.”

Grantaire frowns a little, shifting back in his chair, eyes tight. “No, not so bad. At the root of it, he felt slighted for not being asked about the road and the loss of the stag, and the fae consider it little more than a minor protest, yet it caused enough problems for all of you that, had you been unable to stop, you would had to have killed him, I imagine. Which, while understandable, would have raised tensions just that much more. Answering the question saves many people a good deal of trouble. It is, I think, hardly much different than any other marriage arranged for political accords.”

Enjolras looks over at him not quite sharply, blinking as he realizes the truth of the statement, Combeferre nodding thoughtfully. It is useful to know, and he is beginning to realize how useful Grantaire might be in terms of understanding things usually left shrouded, but he is tired and Grantaire looks discomforted, and they still have much more to discuss.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre, as always, seem to pick up on it, and share another look.

“Then we thank you all the more,” Courfeyrac says with a flourish of a bow, eyes bright as he smiles at Grantaire. “And nothing would be more thankless than to continue pestering you, when you’ve been on the road for a week. I know these three will disperse to their rooms soon enough, but, if you’d like, I would be pleased to find you some of your own?”

It seems to Enjolras a clear dismissal, but Grantaire takes it without complaint, rising.

“I would be very much in your debt, monsieur,” is all he says, bowing once more to the room, cheerful and not quite mocking. “And I thank you all for your indulgence.”

Even as they’re walking out, Courfeyrac has leaned in close to start speaking with Grantaire, and Enjolras finds himself faced with his friends, who he half expects to interrogate or berate him, but instead finds himself following Combeferre out of the room and down the hall. They don’t speak until they reach Enjolras’ rooms, fire already lit.

“You are sure, my friend?” Combeferre asks him, clasping their hands. “I know it is only political, but this was never something you intended.”

“I am sure,” Enjolras replies steadily, squeezing his hands. “Be at peace, Combeferre, I made my decision freely. I am aware that we differ greatly, and that it is unlikely I would have chosen him if the situation were anything else, but I think we will manage. And Joly and Lesgle both like him already, which must count for something.”

That makes Combeferre smile a touch. “So it must. You would prefer if the arrangements were made expediently?”

“I would, though not extravagant. You know how I feel about extravagance,” he sighs. “I would tell you to ask Grantaire’s opinion, but I imagine that’s what Courfeyrac is doing.”

“Just so.” His smile is amused, this time, and he kisses Enjolras’ forehead, an affectionate gesture rarely permitted. “You will do me one favor, Enjolras?”

“Anything!” he promises without hesitation and in earnest. “Combeferre, you are one of my dearest and closest friends. I would be lost without you. I could deny you nothing.”

The other man’s eyes soften at the edges, and his smile quirks just a little. “I know, and I appreciate it. But for now, I just ask that you keep in mind that your actions impact others’ emotions. For now, I will leave you, and have food brought up momentarily. We can speak in the morning.”

Enjolras thanks him again, frowning as he contemplates Combeferre’s parting words, hands clasped behind his back as he paces the length of the room.

This is so far out of his realm of experience that he simply doesn't know what to _do_ with it. The idea of being married, even if only in name, is so far removed from him that he wonders, almost, why he offered so readily. He knows, of course, that it's simply because it doesn't mean anything to him, and he has nothing to lose by it. But what does Grantaire? Enjolras still doesn't know what to make of that, even in light of his little speech in front of the others.

His pacing is interrupted by one of the staff bringing in food and he thanks her sincerely, suddenly too tired to keep contemplating it. It's not more than another hour before he's asleep, the circling thoughts trailing off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Still, he wakes early the next morning, and cleans up thoroughly simply because he _can_ before going in search of Courfeyrac and Combeferre, joining them for a private breakfast. They relay all that he has missed in the administration and the private occurrences of their companions, and in return he gives them a fuller account of their journey, including the matters he'd noted as needing improvement. It takes no time at all to fall into their easy pattern of work, and it's nearly noon before anything breaks their reverie.

It's laughter through the window that looks out over one of the quiet, tucked away gardens that catches his attention, and Enjolras glances out, curious. Joly and Bossuet are easy to spot in their usual places - Joly sitting on one of the low stone benches with his cane tucked against his leg, and Bossuet sitting on the ground, leaning back against him. Apparently their acquaintenceship with the Lady Musichetta has gone well, because she's joined them, her laughter sweet and clear and mixed with theirs as she sits beside Joly. He's surprised, almost, to see Grantaire with them, leaning against a tree and gesturing wildly, but he smiles fondly all the same, the sounds of their chatter and amusement floating up the walls.

But Enjolras is only distracted for a few minutes, returning his attention to reports when Courfeyrac makes a noise that suggests he's found something displeasing. He has missed this, the work of it, and his friends. It is a familiar and comfortable routine, and he almost doesn't remember anything's changed for the next few days, except that he keeps seeing Grantaire from the corner of his eye.

He sees him one morning sparring with Feuilly and Bahorel, and another afternoon idly strumming a lute while Jehan sings a ballad. He hears from Courfeyrac that Grantaire already seems to be getting to know the castle like the back of his hand, and from Combeferre that he's very well versed in lore. Enjolras feels a strange twinge of emotion at that alongside the mild relief that they get along, not sure if it is regret that his friends are getting know Grantaire better than he is or guilt for not seeking him out.

But then, Enjolras is rarely done working until nearly nightfall, when Grantaire always seems to disappear (and even the others have noticed), and he can't bring himself to take a day off. At least, he cannot until one afternoon when Courfeyrac lays a hand on his arm.

"Enjolras," he says, kindly, "I know you've been preoccupied, but the wedding preparations are nearly finished and the date is close. Perhaps you should speak to Grantaire?"

"Are they?" he asks, surprised. His friends' efficiency is unsurprising - if anyone could put a suitable affair together in so little time, it would be they - and yet he hasn't realized how quickly the time has passed. He's been asked his opinion on a few details here and there, and has very little opinion on most of them, but he only registered that distantly, so caught up in his work. "Ah, you are correct. It's only a few more days, is it not? Then I should indeed seek him out. Do you perhaps know...?"

"Try the library up the stairs in the west wing," Combeferre suggests, mouth curling a little in amused affection. "I do not think he will hold your absentmindedness against you."

"You are supposed to remind me of these things," Enjolras mutters petulantly, not meaning it seriously, and it makes them both laugh as Courfeyrac all but pushes him out the door. He decides to try Combeferre's suggestion first, slipping up the stairwell and enjoying the quiet of the upper floors, silently making his way along to the library.

Sure enough, Grantaire is there, sitting at a table with a book, not seeming to notice Enjolras' entrance, absorbed as he is. But a step closer, and he looks up, clearly surprised, starting to rise.

“No, please,” Enjolras says, feeling suddenly uncertain. “Monsieur Grantaire, if I may…?”

“Of course!” Grantaire says, then gives him a cheeky smile. “It is your table, technically. And please, no title.”

Enjolras huffs but doesn’t comment further, taking another chair and folding his hands neatly on the table in front of him. “I may have… lost track of time, unfortunately. I wanted to make sure that you were still amenable before Sunday.”

Grantaire looks unimpressed. “While I appreciate the thought… Enjolras, did you feel forced to make the offer? If that was so, I will hold nothing against you for deciding you cannot go through with this.”

“I did not,” Enjolras snaps, suddenly irritated. “I made the offer of my own free and unburdened will, and I do not regret it. I was fully aware of the consequences of my decision and made it all the same.”

“As did I,” Grantaire says, and snorts at the look on Enjolras’ face before he gentles again, immediately. “I only mean to say that you need not keep asking.”

Enjolras nods, watching Grantaire for a moment, abashed as he accepts the point. “That is a more than fair request. Yet, at the risk of offending once more… Why did you agree? Surely you desire more than a marriage based on politics, to a man devoted already to a cause.”

Grantaire sighs a little, and he refuses to meet Enjolras’ eyes. With everyone else, Enjolras has seen him loud and exuberant, but with him, he is quiet and thoughtful. He wonders if it is a sign of shyness, as with Prouvaire, or undue deference, or perhaps distaste.

“I am not a man who believes in anything.” Grantaire, when he finally speaks, sounds a little bitter but still oddly gentle. His eyes are hooded, and he stares at the grain of the wooden table, as though lost in thought. “I had given up on the world, on its people. What suffering, what pain! What cruelties and poverties and punishments! Some men exalted, others cursed, and they all end in the muck with the law run wild and Antigone’s empty fists.

“Very well, I said, to hell with the world and to hell with those who live in it. Then you and your friends wound up in charge, and it’s not much, but things have changed, a little. The lives of the people may still be miserable, but that it is because misery is the nature of people, and now there is more food and less war. I doubt very much that you all may change the world for the better, or for long, but it is something.

“I had not thought to be of any use to you. Even knowing the answer, well, I could hardly give it to you. Yet you freely offered yourself in the name of the people. It’s a strange thing, to see someone so convinced of the ability to change, of the inherent worthiness of humanity. I am a worthless man in many ways, and ignorant, and have little to give. But to be married does me no harm – if anything, monsieur, I gain more than you do from the arrangement – so, yes, I agreed.”

When he stops, he’s still not looking at Enjolras, his brow deeply creased and mouth folded into an unhappy scowl.

“I thank you,” Enjolras says, reaching out and letting his fingers brush Grantaire’s hand, just briefly. “For your honesty and for your willingness. I was afraid, perhaps, that I had driven you away or had insulted you – I have been told I am not the easiest man to tolerate.”

He blinks at the brief touch, and finally looks up, humor curling his mouth back up even as his eyes are unreadable and tired. “Is that so? I would not have guessed! No, no, I jest. You are stern, Monsieur Enjolras, but you are not uncompromising.”

“Just Enjolras, please, I do not insist of formality, either.” Enjolras watches Grantaire another moment, unable to make sense of his swiftly shifting moods and his contradictions from one moment to the next. “Very well, I am stern. I am rigid, even. There is a reason I have stepped back to leave Combeferre and Courfeyrac stronger roles in dealing with the people, they understand better than I do many things. I am stubborn, I push when perhaps I should stop, and even knowing that I must ask – why us? Why trust us, when we paused at the side of the road?”

“You,” Grantaire corrects. “I like Bahorel and Prouvaire very well, but it was you.”

“Very well,” Enjolras corrects, inclining his head, even more confused than before. “Why me?”

He chuckles, a dry, hollow sound, but his voice is soft when he speaks again. “Why did Ariadne favor Thesus? Did she believe he might do what others had not, or did she simply hope?”

Grantaire smiles a little, and rises, taking a book with him and waving jauntily at Enjolras over his shoulder as he walks out the door. Enjolras is tempted to rush after him, to demand an explanation, but he knows the choice was deliberately made, that such an attempt would not be welcome. He sighs.

Still, the conversation niggles at the back of his mind, and Enjolras has never been an avid studier of the classics. He finds Prouvaire that night, perched on one of the walls, and leans beside him.

“Might I ask you something?”

Prouvaire hums an agreement, looking over at Enjolras and tipping his head a little. “I’ll do my best to be of assistance.”

“Who were Ariadne and Thesus?”

That makes him smile. “An unusual question, from you! There are several versions, but for our purposes, I believe it suffices to say that she was Minoan and he Athenian. He was one of fourteen Athenian youths sent to be sacrificed to a minotaur her father kept in a labyrinth. She gave him a ball of thread so he might keep track of where he had been, and slay the monster, and end the sacrifices.”

“And does he?” Enjolras asks.

“He does,” Prouvaire agrees, with another quiet smile. “It’s Greek, of course, no one is allowed to be happy for long, but… yes.”

Enjolras cannot decide if he finds that comforting or not, but believes he may understand what Grantaire intended to say. He hopes, very suddenly, that he succeeds as well, is somehow able to ease a burden of skepticism by paying off the risks. But hope does very little, and actions speak far louder. He will see.

They stay there for a while before Prouvaire decides it is too cold for his tastes and they return inside, Enjolras still caught up in his thoughts. He has plenty of time for them, because now it seems to be common knowledge that he’s to be married, and every person he barely knows seems to have an opinion or a question. He takes to hiding in the workrooms and leaving Courfeyrac and Combeferre to deal with the onslaught. It does mean that he doesn’t have much more of a chance to speak to Grantaire, though they see one another one or twice and it’s always cordial, and Enjolras has always appreciated particularly clever puns, of which Grantaire seems to have an endless supply.

Before he knows it, he has Courfeyrac and Combeferre at his door after a restless night, insisting on making sure he’s presentable. Enjolras allows it, because although he is not _nervous_ , he has never liked, particularly, events like these where he’s expected to participate. The fact that he’s to be married, symbolically or no, is only one more thing to keep him off balance.

They seem to understand, as they always do, because Courfeyrac cups Enjolras’ jaw in his hands after straightening his tunic, and gives him a soft and quiet smile, reassuring. It is Combeferre, surprisingly, who embraces him, and does not complain when Enjolras clings to him a little. He knows not what he’s done to deserve them, but he is endlessly thankful. He is, however, fairly certain that half the clothes he’s wearing were not in his wardrobe before, newly tailored and fitted, but Courfeyrac just smiles at him innocently.

Still, he’s grumbling at the fussiness of it when they escort him to a small room off to the side of the main courtyard to wait. Grantaire is already there, looking uncomfortable in his own finery, scrubbed clean and fidgety, his dark hair braided up elegantly, but he chuckles a little at Enjolras’ faint scowl. “Not to your tastes, then?”

“Hardly,” he huffs, sighing. “Courfeyrac promised me nothing elaborate or overwrought.”

He stops, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

“It is not that I don’t wish anyone to know about this,” Enjolras tries to explain, as earnestly as he can, looking to Grantaire. “Nor do I wish you to think that I am ashamed or embarrassed. I just find such functions wasteful and frivolous, more for spectacle than anything else.”

Grantaire just laughs again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “If it eases your mind, it is not about you and is hardly even for you. Think of it as a performance, if you will – all rising stars that blaze change through the sky are but actors, surely it will come easily to you. It is a reassurance, that we respect the way things are, that we allow ourselves to be on display for them. Courfeyrac knows what he is doing. I certainly do not relish being on the stage and play only the parts of the fool, but at least for once, we will have the excuse to sneak away early and avoid large parts of the commentary. Do you star often in comedies, monsieur?”

Enjolras snorts, crossing his arms. “Rarely. Be serious.”

“But I am wild,” Grantaire replies with a grin that looks sharp, teasing and cheeky, before he softens again in a moment, leaning forward and waiting for any sign of disapproval or pulling back before he gently adjusts Enjolras’ collar. “Be easy, will you not?”

“I will try,” he sighs, and does not swat away Grantaire’s hands.

It’s only minutes before Joly and Bahorel come by to collect them, and Grantaire graces him with one last smile, and Enjolras returns it without a thought.

The ceremony itself passes in a blur, and Enjolras finds himself bored with the proceedings and the people, and he tries desperately to be grateful it isn’t worse. The only part that stands out in his mind, more than the crowd, than the heat, than the recitation of vows by formula, is the kiss they are expected to share. It is soft, chaste, and utterly unremarkable, utterly impersonal.

He doesn’t know why part of him expected anything else. Even when that is over and done, his attention is still in demand, because there are people to greet and to speak to, and Courfeyrac has turned this into an excuse for a long, drawn out feast. By the time he has a chance to steal away to a corner for a breath, it is late in the afternoon, nearing sunset. His friends give him a handful of minutes before they drag him back in, and he gets caught up in a conversation with Feuilly, only barely registering a flicker of movement when Grantaire slips out of the hall.

And though it is only barely dark and the feasting is still going strong, Enjolras excuses himself as soon as he can. He thinks, briefly, of retreating to the walls or one of the libraries, for some space and time to himself, because whether or not the marriage is technically to be consummated, custom is custom and he does not have his rooms to himself for the night. But it feels cowardly to avoid Grantaire, and he can make no excuses, intending to offer the other man the bed. There’s still some lingering trepidation he can’t place as he walks, and he still cannot make sense of so many things.

When he returns to his rooms, Enjolras isn’t surprised to see Grantaire sitting in front of the fireplace already, watching the flames with his back to the door.

“Monsieur Grantaire,” he greets, stiff and formal, and he regrets that there’s nothing there beyond rigid politeness, because for all that they’ve been getting along the last few days, he still feels no _affection_ toward the man. He’s done his duty, nothing more, and it’s hollow, empty. Surely any man would desire more than this, but Grantaire seems accepting of a marriage such as this despite the fact that he, unlike Enjolras, has not devoted himself to the running of a country.

“I’ve said you can call me R,” Grantaire says, not looking up from the fire, but he sounds amused. “Enjolras.”

He huffs, a little, and crosses to sit nearby, still a respectable distance away on the divan. “All the same. Are you well?”

“Am I well, he asks.” Grantaire laughs, and finally looks up. His dark curls are out of the earlier elaborate braid, soft around his shoulders, and he, though certainly _Grantaire_ , looks different. His face has lost the redness around the eyes and the bags under them, jaw narrower, nose thin and turned up at the end rather than lumpy and broken, his features elfin-fine, eyes more gold and green than brown, everything about him utterly lovely if still recognizable. It looks wrong, somehow, on him. “A choice for you, my marble lover of liberty. See here curséd, wretched Grantaire, who is only beautiful at night, misshapen and homely by day, a crass creature of contradictions. You’ve married me, as you said you would, and now the choice is yours, which way would you have me?”

Enjolras’ brow furrows at that, wants to snap back that this is _ridiculous_ , and infringes on Grantaire’s rights, and clearly _he_ should be the one who gets to chose, what sort of boorish cur does he think Enjolras _is_. But he pauses, because Grantaire’s eyes aren’t glittering with challenge and that usual hint of mockery or amusement. The color may be beautiful, but his eyes are nearly blank, only just covering a melancholy dread. Does he think Enjolras would demand something from him? Does he think he intends to be cruel, to mock him, to _pity_ him?

Weeks ago, he might have. Weeks ago, he would never have noticed, too bewildered and irritated by Grantaire’s teasing and taunting and seeming lack of respect for _anything_ , by the ridiculous condition placed on the answer to the ogre’s question. Too frustrated by the lazy, easy way Grantaire had spoken: “Here then, your answer – it is not enough to give a person choice, but to respect those they make. Medea made her sacrifice, Pylades his, they only wanted it to be worthwhile, to be accepted.”

And – oh.

Grantaire thinks that Enjolras will want him like this, beautiful and seemingly pliant, no marks of the hardships he’s endured, more suited to Enjolras’ station. And that would cut him worse than any condemnation, to be wanted only on that condition, to be taken only like this, to be chosen for this loveliness, when Enjolras would only have him through obligation before.

He reaches out, nearly drawing back at Grantaire’s well-hidden wince, and takes his hands – suddenly soft and smooth, no trace of the calluses built up there before.

“I want you as yourself,” he says, steadily and firmly, and finds it’s true. He wants _Grantaire_ , wants him for more than the sake of a promise, wants his stubbornness and fierceness and laughter and melancholy, wants his talents and his wonder, his skepticism and his deep affection and his tentative trust. “R, I want you stay with me, if you like, as _you_ are, true to yourself. You are infuriating and sometimes frustrating and impossible, but I wouldn’t change that, and you are kind and gentle and you care more deeply than you would let on. The man I’ve been coming to know, all your bundles of contradiction and all that you are, that’s who I want to learn to know, if you’ll have me. I’ll accept you, if you will accept me.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s answered incorrectly, Grantaire staring at him with too wide, too lovely eyes. And then he tightens his hold on Enjolras’ hands, and it’s not so much the blink of an eye as some indefinable shift that has him back to normal. His eyes are hopeful, tentative, and he studies their twined hands.

“Do you mean that?” he asks, daring a glance up. “All of that? It wasn’t just to break the curse?”

Enjolras has many words at his disposal, but this time, all he needs to do is smile and hold tighter in return, because pretty words are never enough to break a curse.

Grantaire looks breathless, his eyes lighting up with love and adoration and _wonder_ , and his smile is crooked and too wide and brilliant, transformed by happiness in a way magic could never touch. Every defense, every sneer, is shattered around him now, filled up by this vulnerability and new assurance that no one but Enjolras can see.

“I’d like to kiss you now,” Enjolras says, unable to keep the faint note of quiet, startled happiness from his voice, “if you’ll permit it?”

He smiles again, with enough force to crinkle the corners of his eyes, but his gaze, while overjoyed, is as gentle, as tender as ever. “Do you even need to ask?”

“Always,” he says, and lifts a hand to cup his husband’s jaw, and kisses him without hesitation, without reservation.

This time, it feels like a promise freely given.


End file.
